


Writing Exercise: The Bull of Bulgaria

by StoryTellerBoneZone



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Gen, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 07:04:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13921884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoryTellerBoneZone/pseuds/StoryTellerBoneZone
Summary: Just a writing exercise I did while listening to the same song. Let Lorn's "Weigh me Down" repeat four times by the time I had finished.





	Writing Exercise: The Bull of Bulgaria

I used to be a very angry man. I've done horrible things in my rage. I've beaten my friends. I've beaten my family. I've beaten my wife. I haven't beaten my kids, never my kids. They make me too proud.

But I was a very angry man now. I was called the Bull of Bulgaria, right in the middle of the USSR. After it's collapse, I didn't change, not really. The crime lords owned everything. I was part of the crime. It was enough said.

But now? I am a cynical man. I have been weighed down by my emotions. I was too obsessed with perfection. I was too frustrated hateful capitalists. I no longer have such anger. I have determination, but not anger.

You see my anger was like red static of a dead station on a tv. Red like a bull, though you probably got that. Wasn't called a bull because I was afraid. The rage always trickled in the back of my mind, like dead static. Constantly telling me to kill everyone in the room. Beat heads into the floor. I listened to that voice. It saved me more problems then it cost me. How can I be in danger when everyone else is dead or on my side?

I'll tell you one thing. One of my brothers, he was always such a good man. Until I found out he had betrayed me. It was both when my anger died and my anger engulfed me like an inferno. I was rabid. He had killed our mother. He had set fire to our home. He had lied to me for over five years. We grew up together, trained together, killed together. But it was his fault we were sent into this path.

When I beat him, I showed him something he'd never seen before. I've shown him what the face of his death looks like. He expected the bull to come out, raging and thrashing. There was no anger on my face. There was nothing he wanted. There was nothing but intense eyes on him. Not angry eyes.

I broke him. I broke him that running was the only thing he could do. His arm, shot. His shoulders were shattered. His teeth were caved in. I had made sure he would need extensive kidney transplants. I had snapped his knees. But my brother, he ran. And I told him that day something that would haunt him.

I told him I would make it my life's work to make his death as excruciating and prolonged as much as I could imagine. And I was a very creative person.

But... something funny happened. He had spent the next two decades terrified I was coming. He hid, fleeing country to country like an exotic disease. It was only last month when I saw him again. He was sick of running. He had seen me in a coffee shop I liked to visit. He said he was here to see me. He said he was sick of waiting for death, and that he was embracing it now.

It's funny. I didn't recall me even telling him that. I had only remembered my brother had disappeared. Anger is such a wasteful thing. It ruins so much. I still killed him, sure. But that was out of principle rather then some sort of emotional outburst.


End file.
